Jimmy the Gem

Wee Jimmy is my favourite pupil. He’s clever; he knows all fifty American states. He’s good at maths and doesn’t even bat an eyelid at the thirteen times table. He knows how to spell “onomatopoeia”, and knows all the words to Good King Wenceslas. He is, by all standards, my teachers pet. He’s my darling little gem.

Today, however, he is not. He’s standing there, glaring at me with cold, hard deliberation. There is a frightening ferocity in those thinking, sincere young eyes.

Between him and I, a hurtling snowball flies – and on the battlefield we are the greatest of enemies.


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